Icarus in free fall. I sense a random eddy of air lift momentarily.
But without feathers I cannot remain in flight.
Descending, speed mounts. Air pockets cannot hold me now.
Wax congeals on my arms, leaving imprints of feather shafts.
Waves beneath me are very distinct.
Little white caps grow quickly.
Won't be long now.
No matter--
to soar so close to Helios--
'twas worth it.
I'll not regret the flight for the plummet.
The vantage of the eagle is hardly imaginable
to one confined to earth.
I am Icarus.
I have no regrets.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Saturday, December 19, 2009
spiritual deployability
At the most painful meeting of my adult life I first heard of a person being spiritually undeployable. Myself. I sat numbly as my defects were enumerated and the conclusion reached. What followed was three months of tumult, listening to the opinions and evaluations of others and listening to God. My thoughts on this issue stem from much meditation and thought on the concept of spiritual deployment.
What is spiritual deployability? Who qualifies? Obviously many leaders in Christendom consider themselves qualified to make this judgment. Church and mission leaders, parachurch organizational leaders, anyone with a vestige of spiritual authority has the insight to divine another’s value in a spiritual ministry context. It looks right and it sounds right. There is a grain of sand in the shoe, but one is able to ignore it for a while, thinking, “well, it’s only my own fallen nature.” As long as we don’t find ourselves undeployable, we accept it as a valid concept.
But is it? What is it? And who is qualified?
The army uses “deployable” to describe the state of fitness for a soldier to be useful in whatever capacity he serves to wherever he needs to be sent. Deployment is moving troops into action. Being undeployable involves some disqualification, physically, mentally, or emotionally, which prevents a soldier from being worthy or capable of serving.
To be deployable, therefore, is the deep, unspoken desire of everyone in God’s hands and family. We want to be used. We long to be useful--part of the solution, not the problem. Being undeployable makes us the problem. Rich Mullins sang, “We must be awfully small and not as strong as we think we are.” He had an awareness of his own undeployability and tried to sing to us that we are not as deployable as we think we are.
“His winnowing fork is in His hand, to clear His threshing floor and to gather the wheat into His barn, but the chaff He will burn with unquenchable fire.” Luke 3:17.
When Luke describes Jesus as the fast and furious thresher with his winnowing fork in hand, our focus is on the wheat and chaff: the saved and not, the chosen and not, the good and not. He thrusts His fork under the beaten stalks, the wind blows away the fluffy non-grain. The wheat falls down to be kept, ground into flour and made into bread.
We are the stalks, we are wheat and chaff. In our entirety, we are not ready, acceptable, useful to be ground into flour and turned into bread. We have chaff in our lives. Stuff that our culture cries out is so very important to us: our identity, our dreams, our images of ourselves, our habits, our possessions, and much, much more.
Some of it we know is not profitable. We have habits we want to break, other habits we’d like to develop that will make us more profitable. We have so much to offer, so much we want to bring to show our gratitude.
It’s chaff. All of it. Who I am. What I dream. Where I serve. What I have and what I give. Everything. Even my deployability. Just chaff. Empty fluff. No seed, no food, no bread coming from that. Piles and piles of non-wheat. The Thresher has to come and thresh the stalks to separate the wheat and chaff, the edible from inedible.
As I have wrestled, I’ve discovered that spiritual deployability is an illusion: the concept that we bring value and credit to what we do; that what we do makes us worthy, or how we are makes us profitable. It sounds good, but it is a subtle lie that points us to the ladder of works.
The pure in heart shall see God. Not the deployable, the impressive, the ones with a great track record or piles of quantifiable “fruit.” The pure in heart.
Paul says in Philippians, “Let your gentleness be known . . .”
These are not items to be ticked off in a “spiritual deployment” viability list.
Look at our larger-than-life but tremendously flawed Bible heros from Abraham through David and beyond: take an honest look, and take heart. It isn’t about us, after all. God is working in us, as undeployable and as poor risks as we are. When God is at work, the least deployable may end up most useful.
“If I stand, let me stand on the promise that You will pull me through.
And if I can’t, let me fall on the grace that first brought me to You.” (Rich Mullins)
What is spiritual deployability? Who qualifies? Obviously many leaders in Christendom consider themselves qualified to make this judgment. Church and mission leaders, parachurch organizational leaders, anyone with a vestige of spiritual authority has the insight to divine another’s value in a spiritual ministry context. It looks right and it sounds right. There is a grain of sand in the shoe, but one is able to ignore it for a while, thinking, “well, it’s only my own fallen nature.” As long as we don’t find ourselves undeployable, we accept it as a valid concept.
But is it? What is it? And who is qualified?
The army uses “deployable” to describe the state of fitness for a soldier to be useful in whatever capacity he serves to wherever he needs to be sent. Deployment is moving troops into action. Being undeployable involves some disqualification, physically, mentally, or emotionally, which prevents a soldier from being worthy or capable of serving.
To be deployable, therefore, is the deep, unspoken desire of everyone in God’s hands and family. We want to be used. We long to be useful--part of the solution, not the problem. Being undeployable makes us the problem. Rich Mullins sang, “We must be awfully small and not as strong as we think we are.” He had an awareness of his own undeployability and tried to sing to us that we are not as deployable as we think we are.
“His winnowing fork is in His hand, to clear His threshing floor and to gather the wheat into His barn, but the chaff He will burn with unquenchable fire.” Luke 3:17.
When Luke describes Jesus as the fast and furious thresher with his winnowing fork in hand, our focus is on the wheat and chaff: the saved and not, the chosen and not, the good and not. He thrusts His fork under the beaten stalks, the wind blows away the fluffy non-grain. The wheat falls down to be kept, ground into flour and made into bread.
We are the stalks, we are wheat and chaff. In our entirety, we are not ready, acceptable, useful to be ground into flour and turned into bread. We have chaff in our lives. Stuff that our culture cries out is so very important to us: our identity, our dreams, our images of ourselves, our habits, our possessions, and much, much more.
Some of it we know is not profitable. We have habits we want to break, other habits we’d like to develop that will make us more profitable. We have so much to offer, so much we want to bring to show our gratitude.
It’s chaff. All of it. Who I am. What I dream. Where I serve. What I have and what I give. Everything. Even my deployability. Just chaff. Empty fluff. No seed, no food, no bread coming from that. Piles and piles of non-wheat. The Thresher has to come and thresh the stalks to separate the wheat and chaff, the edible from inedible.
As I have wrestled, I’ve discovered that spiritual deployability is an illusion: the concept that we bring value and credit to what we do; that what we do makes us worthy, or how we are makes us profitable. It sounds good, but it is a subtle lie that points us to the ladder of works.
The pure in heart shall see God. Not the deployable, the impressive, the ones with a great track record or piles of quantifiable “fruit.” The pure in heart.
Paul says in Philippians, “Let your gentleness be known . . .”
These are not items to be ticked off in a “spiritual deployment” viability list.
Look at our larger-than-life but tremendously flawed Bible heros from Abraham through David and beyond: take an honest look, and take heart. It isn’t about us, after all. God is working in us, as undeployable and as poor risks as we are. When God is at work, the least deployable may end up most useful.
“If I stand, let me stand on the promise that You will pull me through.
And if I can’t, let me fall on the grace that first brought me to You.” (Rich Mullins)
Monday, October 19, 2009
the two sons
Taking time to stop and meditate on who I am, what I am about and where my values lie is a precious experience for me. Usually I am busy with lots of "to do" kinds of things and don't prioritize. (I need an hour to be quiet and think.)
Just finished a book, The Cross & the Prodigal. (Yes, the "and" sign is written like that, I don't take liberties with titles.) It's about the parable of the prodigal son. Only Kenneth Bailey makes the point that it is really about both sons. In our western perspective, the prodigal gets the limelight and the elder brother is kind of off stage. We skew the entire point of the story when we concentrate on the bad boy who realizes he's bad and comes home and is reconciled. It is very neat and tidy. It suits our ideas of mercy and grace. Of course, the part tacked on the end about the elder brother is disquieting. But we can ignore that part if we want to. After all, he's not the main point of the story. And his end is inconclusive. Does he go in to the party or does he stay outside and pout? We will never know.
Our society likes to tie the ends. Our entertainers only leave loose ends when there is going to be a sequel. But there isn't a sequel to "The Prodigal Son." There isn't a "The Elder Brother" to wrap it up.
In thinking on this, I suspect Jesus didn't "finish" the story because for many of us, it is about ourselves. In some ways, we are the elder brother. What Jesus was trying to tell us, and we miss the point because our point of view gets in the way, is that both brothers have broken their relationship with their Father. One by breaking the law and the other by keeping the law. The younger broke the law by willfully implementing his own agenda. The elder kept the law as an idol in the place of his relationship with his Father. By technically following all the requests and rules, he could live for himself, and pride himself in his own goodness.
Obviously we see where this is going. The pharisees were a bunch of older brothers. But I have fallen into that trap from time to time. What a scary thing.
We can never mend our own relationship with our Father: He does all the mending. But we have to be willing to be mended, know that we are broken. It is probably easier for prodigals to remember that. They have the "years of vanity and pride" to be remorseful about. But vanity and pride sneak in everywhere.
Just finished a book, The Cross & the Prodigal. (Yes, the "and" sign is written like that, I don't take liberties with titles.) It's about the parable of the prodigal son. Only Kenneth Bailey makes the point that it is really about both sons. In our western perspective, the prodigal gets the limelight and the elder brother is kind of off stage. We skew the entire point of the story when we concentrate on the bad boy who realizes he's bad and comes home and is reconciled. It is very neat and tidy. It suits our ideas of mercy and grace. Of course, the part tacked on the end about the elder brother is disquieting. But we can ignore that part if we want to. After all, he's not the main point of the story. And his end is inconclusive. Does he go in to the party or does he stay outside and pout? We will never know.
Our society likes to tie the ends. Our entertainers only leave loose ends when there is going to be a sequel. But there isn't a sequel to "The Prodigal Son." There isn't a "The Elder Brother" to wrap it up.
In thinking on this, I suspect Jesus didn't "finish" the story because for many of us, it is about ourselves. In some ways, we are the elder brother. What Jesus was trying to tell us, and we miss the point because our point of view gets in the way, is that both brothers have broken their relationship with their Father. One by breaking the law and the other by keeping the law. The younger broke the law by willfully implementing his own agenda. The elder kept the law as an idol in the place of his relationship with his Father. By technically following all the requests and rules, he could live for himself, and pride himself in his own goodness.
Obviously we see where this is going. The pharisees were a bunch of older brothers. But I have fallen into that trap from time to time. What a scary thing.
We can never mend our own relationship with our Father: He does all the mending. But we have to be willing to be mended, know that we are broken. It is probably easier for prodigals to remember that. They have the "years of vanity and pride" to be remorseful about. But vanity and pride sneak in everywhere.
Monday, September 21, 2009
being safe and secure
Jesus, Savior, pilot me over life's tempestuous sea.
I remember singing that on furloughs when I was young. I loved the strong imagery and the music. Just the idea of being out at sea with tons of blue-wet music bashing the hull, thunder and lightening adding to the danger, caught my imagination. I wanted to risk everything for Jesus. I wanted to cross onto the wild side and pay the ultimate price.
Elisabeth Elliot's missionary remark makes me laugh, but inside I'm nodding: "Missionaries don't go, they go forth. Missionaries don't walk, they tread the burning sands. Missionaries don't die, they lay down their lives." That's right, I think: I want to go forth and tread those sands and lay down my life. Many of my heroes did that. I want to be like them.
But missions are changing, and it makes me sad. Missions are worried about the cost of service on the servants. They want to look out for the health and welfare of the missionaries: keep them safe. Why? Isn't their Heavenly Father capable?
It's called member care. It sounds very good. It sounds reasonable. Sensible. Safe. Our society is definitely into security. You find it in airports all the way to how complicated it is to open an aspirin bottle or packaged food item. We have safety belts and safety nets for everyone. We have vaccines and pills for almost any eventuality. I cannot drive anywhere without being reminded that flu shots are available now, 24 hours. Fear seems to be the overriding factor. Fear for safety.
I didn't grow up thinking like that and it feels strange. When my mission changes policy and protocol "to provide better member care" I wonder if that isn't what the Body is supposed to be doing. As I feel the bombardment of precautionary measures in every area: food, health, traffic, education, even recreation, I feel alien.
My safety has been catapulted way out of proportion to my call. We have brothers and sisters imprisoned, tortured, dying of starvation, infected by appalling conditions . . . how can I listen to my society's mantra of security? What makes me think it is more important than serving my spiritual family who happen to live on another continent?
After looking, I don't find any promises for security from the Lord. The closest one to "secure" is "Lo, I am with you always." That one does it for me. But there is nothing about health, education, housing, food, no guarantees. In fact, I find promises that sound more like: "In this world you will have trouble, but take heart. I have overcome the world."
Unknown waves before me roll, hiding rock and treacherous shoal . . .
Now I struggle with trying to extricate myself from the security net so I can hear His voice and follow Him.
I remember singing that on furloughs when I was young. I loved the strong imagery and the music. Just the idea of being out at sea with tons of blue-wet music bashing the hull, thunder and lightening adding to the danger, caught my imagination. I wanted to risk everything for Jesus. I wanted to cross onto the wild side and pay the ultimate price.
Elisabeth Elliot's missionary remark makes me laugh, but inside I'm nodding: "Missionaries don't go, they go forth. Missionaries don't walk, they tread the burning sands. Missionaries don't die, they lay down their lives." That's right, I think: I want to go forth and tread those sands and lay down my life. Many of my heroes did that. I want to be like them.
But missions are changing, and it makes me sad. Missions are worried about the cost of service on the servants. They want to look out for the health and welfare of the missionaries: keep them safe. Why? Isn't their Heavenly Father capable?
It's called member care. It sounds very good. It sounds reasonable. Sensible. Safe. Our society is definitely into security. You find it in airports all the way to how complicated it is to open an aspirin bottle or packaged food item. We have safety belts and safety nets for everyone. We have vaccines and pills for almost any eventuality. I cannot drive anywhere without being reminded that flu shots are available now, 24 hours. Fear seems to be the overriding factor. Fear for safety.
I didn't grow up thinking like that and it feels strange. When my mission changes policy and protocol "to provide better member care" I wonder if that isn't what the Body is supposed to be doing. As I feel the bombardment of precautionary measures in every area: food, health, traffic, education, even recreation, I feel alien.
My safety has been catapulted way out of proportion to my call. We have brothers and sisters imprisoned, tortured, dying of starvation, infected by appalling conditions . . . how can I listen to my society's mantra of security? What makes me think it is more important than serving my spiritual family who happen to live on another continent?
After looking, I don't find any promises for security from the Lord. The closest one to "secure" is "Lo, I am with you always." That one does it for me. But there is nothing about health, education, housing, food, no guarantees. In fact, I find promises that sound more like: "In this world you will have trouble, but take heart. I have overcome the world."
Unknown waves before me roll, hiding rock and treacherous shoal . . .
Now I struggle with trying to extricate myself from the security net so I can hear His voice and follow Him.
Monday, August 17, 2009
a western sojourn
Today we begin a long journey into the setting sun. We will visit many friends, see new places, and hopefully be renewed in our minds.
We are three on this trip. Luke, our token extrovert, is at university. For him, it is the utter east, his heart's desire. Yesterday Phil and I drove him to Indiana Wesleyan and started a new chapter in his life. My heart is full of thanksgiving for him and his desire to serve the LORD with all his heart.
Now, as we face the other direction, and figuratively still other directions in ministry, my heart is still full. Of praise. Alleluia.
I am so excited to see God at work in the lives of our friends--and be assured that He works in ours.
Yesterday this verse of a hymn struck me as a good balance of sober and joyful outlook:
And did not Jesus sing a psalm that night,
when utmost evil strove against the right?
Then let us sing, for whom He won the fight--
Alleluia.
The peace of the Lord be with you.
We are three on this trip. Luke, our token extrovert, is at university. For him, it is the utter east, his heart's desire. Yesterday Phil and I drove him to Indiana Wesleyan and started a new chapter in his life. My heart is full of thanksgiving for him and his desire to serve the LORD with all his heart.
Now, as we face the other direction, and figuratively still other directions in ministry, my heart is still full. Of praise. Alleluia.
I am so excited to see God at work in the lives of our friends--and be assured that He works in ours.
Yesterday this verse of a hymn struck me as a good balance of sober and joyful outlook:
And did not Jesus sing a psalm that night,
when utmost evil strove against the right?
Then let us sing, for whom He won the fight--
Alleluia.
The peace of the Lord be with you.
Monday, July 20, 2009
we need more hymns like this
may Thy house be mine abode
and all my work be praise.
There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come,
no more a stranger or a guest, but like a child at home.
When we sang those words yesterday, they washed me with peace and comfort.
Turmoil is part of this world (to which we cling with unconsidered urgency).
God is not a God of turmoil, but He works in it very well. He has brought friends my way to remind me of Himself and His care. I know I am not especially deserving, and others of His children suffer more with less padding around them.
Teach me how to be padding for someone else, even while I am here in this place.
If I am settled where You put me, I am readier to serve the guests who come my way.
and all my work be praise.
There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come,
no more a stranger or a guest, but like a child at home.
When we sang those words yesterday, they washed me with peace and comfort.
Turmoil is part of this world (to which we cling with unconsidered urgency).
God is not a God of turmoil, but He works in it very well. He has brought friends my way to remind me of Himself and His care. I know I am not especially deserving, and others of His children suffer more with less padding around them.
Teach me how to be padding for someone else, even while I am here in this place.
If I am settled where You put me, I am readier to serve the guests who come my way.
Friday, July 17, 2009
His Voice in Chaos
Last Monday we sat down for a long-awaited meeting with our team leader, area leader and member care guy. All wonderful men. Phil and I thought we were discussing our future, hearing their concerns, they hearing ours and seeking a mutually agreeable conclusion.
It came as a shock, then, when about half way through, Mr Member Care observed that our leaders had made a decision and we thought we were discussing options. The decision had been made in February. We had not realized that because of words like "recommend" and "suggest." The reality came home very hard and for me the room began to reel.
It is the first time in my adult life where someone else has made a decision for me which profoundly affected my future in which I have not had a single word. This was hurtful. The consequences of the decision are far-reaching and painful. I have a new respect for the military: they go wherever they are told to go. I have a new understanding of servanthood: they do what they are told to do.
I've used the battle metaphor for our work in Mozambique, but I've been a volunteer. I've used the servant metaphor, but I've been serving those who "need" me and usually in my capacity and on my terms. Now I need to think of myself as a servant of our team leaders.
My life is not going to ever look the same again. We are being relocated from Quelimane. My email address will mock me: Karen in Where? Not Q, not any more.
As I struggle with hurt, disappointment, frustration and anger; going through all the "if onlys" and "what abouts" I feel the sucking vortex of self-pity. Lord, keep us all from that one.
Know what came to me today? Those Israelites in the wilderness. For healing all they had to do was look up. That's all they had to do, for heaven's sake. Look up at the snake. Look up, instant healing. Well, my healing won't be instant: I'm not a snake bite victim. But I will heal if I look up. His voice came to me in the chaos and said "look up." Don't be pulled into the pros and cons and arguments. Don't let bitterness and unforgiveness have a foothold.
Lord, keep talking, I want Your voice to be the One that comes in clearly in the Chaos.
It came as a shock, then, when about half way through, Mr Member Care observed that our leaders had made a decision and we thought we were discussing options. The decision had been made in February. We had not realized that because of words like "recommend" and "suggest." The reality came home very hard and for me the room began to reel.
It is the first time in my adult life where someone else has made a decision for me which profoundly affected my future in which I have not had a single word. This was hurtful. The consequences of the decision are far-reaching and painful. I have a new respect for the military: they go wherever they are told to go. I have a new understanding of servanthood: they do what they are told to do.
I've used the battle metaphor for our work in Mozambique, but I've been a volunteer. I've used the servant metaphor, but I've been serving those who "need" me and usually in my capacity and on my terms. Now I need to think of myself as a servant of our team leaders.
My life is not going to ever look the same again. We are being relocated from Quelimane. My email address will mock me: Karen in Where? Not Q, not any more.
As I struggle with hurt, disappointment, frustration and anger; going through all the "if onlys" and "what abouts" I feel the sucking vortex of self-pity. Lord, keep us all from that one.
Know what came to me today? Those Israelites in the wilderness. For healing all they had to do was look up. That's all they had to do, for heaven's sake. Look up at the snake. Look up, instant healing. Well, my healing won't be instant: I'm not a snake bite victim. But I will heal if I look up. His voice came to me in the chaos and said "look up." Don't be pulled into the pros and cons and arguments. Don't let bitterness and unforgiveness have a foothold.
Lord, keep talking, I want Your voice to be the One that comes in clearly in the Chaos.
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